


La Dernière Paille

by AngelofPerdition



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dragon Age AU, M/M, Orlais, dalish!Jehan, half-qunari!Bahorel, mage!Grantaire, yes you guessed it the mages' plight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelofPerdition/pseuds/AngelofPerdition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is amazing, Grantaire thinks, how one man can spend his life hardly daring to utter the word ‘magic’ for fear of being found out, and then one day walk into his favourite tavern with the full intention to marinate his insides with the swill that Musichetta dares to call whiskey (nothing against Musichetta, even she agrees that it’s awful), and find the golden-haired and almost certainly illegitimate (because, let’s face it, neither the Duke nor the Duchess have faces one would look at if one had a choice) son of Duke and Duchess d’Enjolras shouting at his two friends about freedom for mages. In Val Royeaux. Otherwise known as the seat of the Divine.<br/>Grantaire doesn’t know if he thinks it stupid or brave. He does know that it’s all sickeningly, endearingly naïve. </p>
<p>(or, the Dragon Age AU that no one asked for and probably no one wants but I'm still writing it because fuck you thats why)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. First multi-chap in a long time, I'll try to update at least once a week, but I can't promise anything.

It is amazing, Grantaire thinks, how one man can spend his life hardly daring to utter the word ‘magic’ for fear of being found out, and then one day walk into his favourite tavern with the full intention to marinate his insides with the swill that Musichetta dares to call whiskey (nothing against Musichetta, even she agrees that it’s awful), and find the golden-haired and almost certainly illegitimate (because, let’s face it, neither the Duke nor the Duchess have faces one would look at if one had a choice - thank the Maker for those ridiculous mask) son of Duke and Duchess d’Enjolras shouting at his two friends about freedom for mages. In Val Royeaux. Otherwise known as the seat of the Divine.  
Grantaire doesn’t know if he thinks it stupid or brave. He does know that it’s all sickeningly, endearingly naïve.

Enjolras finishes speaking, but someone else replies immediately. A dwarf. Grantaire briefly wonders why a dwarf would insert himself into mage-affairs, but then he recognizes his face. Emile Courfeyrac, the friendly neighborhood storyteller and terrible busybody. Also the only beardless dwarf Grantaire has met so far. Not that he has met a lot of dwarves. Socializing is bad for keeping a low profile. That’s his excuse, anyway.

He hangs his head a little, so his curls hide his face in case Courfeyrac decides to look his way and recognizes him, but he can’t help but listen to what the three men - because the son of some Marquis is there as well - are saying.

They really are talking about freedom for mages - no Circle, no Chantry supervision, the templars’ only function to hunt maleficarum - and with such conviction that Grantaire has to wonder if they’re not mages themselves. Well, Courfeyrac definitely isn’t, but Enjolras and the other one might be. In fact, it would explain why Enjolras has been estranged from his family for as long as Grantaire can remember, which varies from day to day.

 

“- but they’re just humans and elves like any other,” Enjolras is arguing when the other man - and Grantaire is just going to go ahead and call him Teddy, because he looks cuddly - interrupts.  
“ _I_ know that,” he says. “And so do most people. The problem is that the templars and the people in charge don’t. That’s why they’re in those positions: because they fear magic and want to see it controlled, so they _have_ to take power.”

“Yes, that is true,” Enjolras agrees. He brings his cup to his mouth to give him time to think. Grantaire notices he’s drinking water. He’d think it was cute, but it’s probably the only non-poisonous drink this place has. He takes a sip from his own whiskey and grimaces. Maker, that’s foul.

 

He tunes out Enjolras’s actual words, but keeps listening to his voice. Maker’s balls, that man has to be the male reincarnation of Andraste herself. Mountains would step aside if he asked. Grantaire can almost see his voice in shades of red and gold, curling into shapes of smoke. It’s beautiful. Inside him there’s a hum of contentment. _It is_ , Compassion agrees. Grantaire shoves her down.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“He’s _beautiful_ , L’Aigle,” he sighs. He’s sprawled over the floor, since his legs are too long for him to comfortably sit in chairs fashioned for dwarves.

 

After that first time, Enjolras kept coming back to the Musain, sometimes with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, sometimes with others. They always speak about the mages, or the elves, sometimes the refugees that came from Ferelden during the Blight, sometimes ‘the oppressed’ in general. And Grantaire sits in the corner and listens and drinks and scoffs, and they don’t notice him.

 

Bossuet - who apparently is all for solidarity, because he’s on the floor as well, even though there’s a perfectly comfortable couch made especially for pocket-sized people right there. Or maybe he fell over and didn’t feel like getting up again. Either possibility is more than plausible - lifts his bottle of ale in a toast. “To pretty boys who went to our heads.”

“And pretty elven girls that ask you to join her and her lover in bed,” Grantaire snorts. “Lucky bastard.”

Bossuet laughs. “Now those are words not often used to describe me,” he says, but he does smile wistfully. Grantaire rolls his eyes.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Nothing really happens until two weeks later, when Grantaire has taken his usual chair in the corner of the Musain. Enjolras and whoever’s accompanying him today are later than usual. Not that Grantaire notices such things. He _doesn’t_ , so kindly take your accusing glare elsewhere. Thank you.

 

So he _doesn’t_ notice that Enjolras is late, and neither does he sit up when the nobleman finally enters, spilling his mead all over the floor and his shoes (well, it’s not like he paid for it. On the house, an apology from Musichetta on behalf of Bossuet).

But it doesn’t matter what he does or doesn’t do, because the elf chatting amicably with Enjolras is an elf Grantaire knows, and there’s no mistaking that face, since there aren’t many Dalish elves in Val Royeaux.

He tries to hide behind his curls, like he does in the presence of templars or people he doesn’t want to recognize him, but-

“R!”

He wonders if he can pretend not to have heard it, but it’s not Jehan he doesn’t want to talk to, just his blond companion, so he looks up.

“Hey, Daisy,” he smiles.

Jehan gives him a look at the nickname. “Did you know Courfeyrac has also started calling me that?” he says. “I _know_ it’s your fault, don’t deny it.”

Grantaire grins. “I try to never admit or deny anything,” he reminds Jehan, because this is something that he’s said about a thousand times. “It makes me more interesting.” Except the question “are you a mage?”. _That_ he will deny until he’s blue in the face.

He tugs playfully on the elf’s braid. “But did you ever think that maybe Courfeyrac thinks you’re adorable and delicate like a daisy?”

Jehan swats at his hand. “I’m not delicate,” he protests.

  
“Seconded,” Enjolras suddenly agrees. He’s been watching the whole exchange silently, but has apparently decided to speak up.

“Alexander d’Enjolras,” he introduces himself, holding a hand out to Grantaire. “But call me Enjolras.”

 _I know who you are_ , Grantaire wants to say, but he doesn’t. “Grantaire,” he replies instead, shaking his hand. Enjolras has a firm handshake, no surprise there. “Call me R.”

He sees Enjolras’s lips twitch at the pun and can’t help but smile in victory. Their eyes catch and praise Andraste, but he’s never seen eyes that blue.

“No first name?” Enjolras asks curiously, and Grantaire shrugs. “If I have one,” he says, “then the wine must’ve erased it from my memories.” Actually, he’s pretty sure that was the magebane, but he can hardly say that, can he? Not that this is much better, making his first impression that of a drunkard who can’t even remember his own name. Well, it’s the right impression anyhow.

Jehan clucks his tongue impatiently, like he always does when Grantaire is being self-deprecating. “We both know that’s bullshit, lethallin,” he says, and then, brightly, “So, mind if we join you?”

Yes. “No, be my guest.” He gestures to the three empty chairs at his table. “Feel free to choose.”

  
Jehan takes the chair next to him, Enjolras the chair across from him.

 

“I’d offer you a drink,” Grantaire says mournfully. “But sadly, my purse is as empty as my cup.” Because the contents are on the floor. Because he _didn’t_ suddenly sit up when Enjolras came in.

“Don’t worry about it,” Enjolras says. He flags Musichetta down and signals for a bottle of mead. Musichetta comes back with the good stuff and two extra cups and Enjolras pays in gold. Grantaire whistles appreciatively. To his surprises, Enjolras’s neck flushes and he looks down for a second, seemingly self-conscious.

 

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Enjolras says - asks, really - when their cups have been filled. It shouldn’t sting as much as it does. After all, Grantaire himself is the one who’s been trying to keep a low profile.

“I come here pretty often,” he shrugs. “I don’t stand out much. Now, you, on the other hand, might want to talk less loud when you’re talking about forbidden things.”

“ _Forbidden things_?” Enjolras frowns. “Equality is not forbidden. Nor is freedom. Basic rights.”  
“Magic is,” Grantaire shoots back. “Or at least as good as.”

“Yes.” Enjolras has a strange look in his eyes. “That is the point. That’s what I’m trying to change.”

 

Grantaire knows this. He knows this because he _hasn’t_ been eavesdropping on Enjolras’s every conversation. Still, it’s a different thing to know it than to hear it from the man himself, directed at him. Enjolras doesn’t know him, hasn’t even noticed him until now, yet already he’s telling him things that could get him into serious trouble, if not with the Chantry, then at least with is family.

 

“Change it?” he asks. “How will you change it? People are afraid of magic, if you haven’t noticed, and with good reason.”

Enjolras’s eyes flare indignantly. “Good reason?” he exclaims. “Yes, it’s dangerous, but so is a sword. So is a bow.”

“A sword can be put down,” Grantaire argues. “Magic can’t.” Believe him, he’s tried. He’s tried so hard it nearly killed him a few times.

“But a sword can’t heal while magic can,” the other counters.

 

 _Yes!_ shouts Compassion from within him. _Listen to him, he’s right!_ Grantaire pushes her out of his head, or, as far as she’s willing to go. For something that claims not to be a demon, she’s annoyingly persistent.

 

“Do you believe all magic is evil, then?” Enjolras questions angrily. “Do you believe all mages should be made tranquil?”

Compassion tugs at his mind again. _You can tell him_ , she insists, _he’s safe, he’s good_.

Grantaire sighs wearily and steadfastly ignores her. “You want to know what I believe?” he asks Enjolras. “I believe I need to get drunk, and I also believe...” He puts his finger to his chin as though he’s in deep thought. “Yes, I believe I’m going to do that _now_. Good evening.”

“R, wait,” Jehan tries when he pushes away from the table, his chair scraping over the floor.

“Get home safe, Daisy,” Grantaire says.

 

He casts one last look at Enjolras and his still-full cup - because _of course_ he didn’t drink - grabs his coat, blows a kiss to Musichetta and is out the door.

With a bit of luck, Eponine’s parents and half-siblings won’t be home. Well, he wouldn’t mind Azelma and Gavroche. Grantaire’s never minded looking after the little sprogs. And they don’t mind when he’s pissed out of his mind, so it’s pretty much win-win with them.

 

Except, of course, for Gavroche jumping on his stomach the next morning because he’s a little shit, and Azelma rolling on the floor laughing. But hey, it could be worse. He could be tranquil.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

In the weeks after that, he goes to the Corinthe instead of the Musain, even though the whiskey is even worse there. Yes, he _knows_ he’s a coward, thanks. It’s no big deal, because the people at the Corinthe are nice enough, and the ale isn’t _too_ bad.

 

It’s all working out great for all parties involved, until after about three weeks, Joly tells him there’s a half-qunari staying at the Musain who, allegedly, is able to out-drink everyone, and then the game is _on_ , because Grantaire has the tolerance of a fucking bronto and he’s never been out-drunk.

 

As soon as he sets foot in the Musain, two things happen at the same time. He sees the half-qunari - built like a brick wall, dark skin, grey horns and a huge grin that should look out of place on anything qunari, but somehow doesn’t - and a hand closes around his arm and turns him around.

“I thought you said you came here often.” Enjolras is frowning, and _fuck_ he knew he shouldn’t have done this.

“ _Monsieur_ ,” he smirks, because he can’t help himself when this is such a perfect set-up. “Are you _flirting_ with me?”

Enjolras blinks in confusion, but lets Grantaire go. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, and if Grantaire thought Enjolras full of righteous fury was breathtaking, then Enjolras speechless and almost flustered is completely and utterly _adorable_.

“Well, as lovely as this has been,” he smiles, smoothing out the fabric of his sleeve where Enjolras’s grip had crinkled it, “I have to go out-drink a qunari. Have a nice evening.”

“No, wait,” Enjolras nearly yells. He makes an aborted movement with his hand, as though he was going to grab Grantaire’s arm again.

Grantaire waits.

Enjolras lowers his hand and tugs on a loose strand of his hair. “You were drunk last time,” he says. “And I... my behaviour wasn’t exemplar either. I wish to continue our discussion.”

 _Please_ , Compassion asks quietly, almost timidly, and perhaps that’s what does it, that this time Compassion doesn’t yell, doesn’t shout at him, but asks like a shy child would ask for a hug.

Perhaps that’s what makes Grantaire give in and say, “I suppose that qunari could wait” and follow him to Enjolras’s table, where Courfeyrac and the man from the first time, that he’d nicknamed Teddy are trying to pretend they hadn’t been straining to hear their every word.

To her credit, Compassion doesn’t feel victorious, merely extremely grateful, though for what, Grantaire couldn’t say. All that he knows is that this is a disaster waiting to happen, and _when it does_ , he tells the spirit, _it’s all on your head_.

 

(Also, in case you were wondering, it turns out the half-qunari, who goes by the name of Bahorel, isn’t actually capable of out-drinking Grantaire. No one is sure if he should be proud of that accomplishment or not.)

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

There’s more than one reason why Grantaire hates mornings, namely hangovers, life itself, morning itself, loud children (yes, he’s looking at you, Gavroche) and, of course, the best part: his daily dose of diluted magebane.  
It may not be the most healthy thing he does, but it shuts Compassion up and keeps him safe from templars and demons. A lesser evil, if you like.

-

He came up with the idea when he was still haunted by demons in his dreams. They came every night, stealing into his head and reading his mind and offering him love, talent, power, freedom. He knew he wanted too much, knew he was too easy a target, and that’s why he thought of the magebane.

 

The first time was in Ferelden, about five years back, and he’d nearly died. He would’ve, if it hadn’t been for the runaway Circle mage that found him and forced two lyrium potions down his throat.  
Grantaire doesn’t remember his name now, only remembers blond hair, an easy smile and a flirtatious wink, and of course the coat with feather pauldrons that he’d given him. He still wears it.

  
He also remembers being in awe of the flames that ignited on the mage’s fingers, the glow of the rejuvenation spell he’d cast on him in order to further restore his mana, remembers being coaxed into casting a weak and uncontrolled ice spell to put out the fire.

  
He doesn’t remember actually casting the spell, doesn’t remember how the power shot from his spine to his fingers, the adrenaline kick it gave him.

 

He’s glad he doesn’t remember that.

-

He hates mornings now more than before, because in some miraculous way, he’s got friends now. He and Enjolras still fundamentally disagree on everything - well, most of the time, Grantaire just disagrees with him to be spiteful - but Jehan is delighted to see more of him, as is Courfeyrac.

  
He introduces Joly, Bossuet and Eponine to them, who take to Enjolras’s revolutionary ideas like fish to water, especially Eponine.  
Combeferre - Teddy from the first time, his name is actually Theodore, isn’t that just the _best_ coincidence ever? Grantaire thinks so, fuck you - and Joly immediately bond over a shared love for potion-making, and Jehan manages to talk Bahorel into joining their little club - it’s actually a club, called _les Amis de l’ABC_ , a pun he’d groan at if he hadn’t made a very similar pun of his own name.

With Bahorel comes Feuilly, a ginger apostate elf who runs the free clinic in the slums. Grantaire is fairly sure he can see hearts in Enjolras’s eyes. It’s no surprise, since Feuilly is the fucking _embodiment_ of the blond’s causes, as oppressed as it gets, and still positive, hard-working, _hopeful_.

 

Grantaire feels a little out of place between all these idealists, with their plans and their hopes. It almost makes _him_ feel hopeful, and he knows he should be careful. He might slip if he starts feeling too comfortable, and that’s a thought that almost scares him away from them.

But then Jehan tugs on his sleeve and asks to be drawn, and Bahorel demands a drinking re-match, and all he knows is that, one way or another, this is all going to go to shit. Until then, however, he fully intends to enjoy himself.


	2. Perdu et Trouvé

Marius isn’t too proud to admit that, in hindsight, maybe storming out of the house with nothing but the clothes on his back, only fifty silver and his father’s letters, hadn’t been one of his best ideas, especially since he’d told Grandfather he wasn’t coming back.

His pride will allow a lot of things, like admitting his faults, and, you know, generally making a fool out of himself in public (like in front of girls he was supposed to impress), but it won’t allow him to go back now to get his stuff, or even to the Chantry for refuge.

It’s not just his pride, either. He doesn’t _want_ to go back, because Odette will beg him to _please apologize to master Pontmercy_ , and he _won’t_ , because Grandfather had been _wrong_.

He shouldn’t have lied, shouldn’t have taken the letters, shouldn’t have hid this from him so long, no, at all.

But there’s no use in dwelling on it. His father is dead, for real this time. To think that he could’ve had a father, could’ve seen him and known him...

 

He rubs angrily at his eyes and look down at the pile of crumbs that had been bread before he’d pulverized it in anger. He feel vaguely guilty, and then he feels like an idiot for feeling guilty, because it’s just bread.

He sighs and drops his head to the table, knocking over his milk in the process because apparently the Maker thought didn’t he had it bad enough yet.

 

The innkeeper, a large woman with a round, red face who charges outlandish prices for everything, waves away his apologies and smiles broadly.

“Not to worry, Monsieur,” she tries to assure him while she pats him on the back in a way that’s probably meant to be motherly.

Marius only feels more uncomfortable.

 

“Eponine, dear,” the woman calls over her shoulder. “Come clean this up, there’s a good girl.”

She pats his back one more time before she returns to her other patrons, just as a petite girl approaches his table with a cloth.

 

The girl - Eponine, the innkeeper called her- glances between him and the woman and pulls a face.

“I apologize for my mother, Monsieur,” she says. “She can be... overwhelming.”

 

_Well_ , Marius thinks, _that’s certainly one word for it._

 

And then, wait, her _mother_? Because the girl is as slender and pretty as an elf and the woman is nothing short of ugly.

 

Eponine laughs and Marius flushes because he really needs a brain-to-mouth filter.

“My father is an elf,” Eponine explains as she wipes down the table, and, alright, that makes sense.

 

“Ah,” he replies intelligently. _This is what Grandfather meant when he said you’d never find a girl dumb enough to keep up with you_ , he thinks to himself and then pushes that thought away because he doesn’t want to think of Grandfather right now.

 

Luckily, Eponine seems immune to awkwardness. She laughs again.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him. “You’re hardly the first to be curious about that.”

 

She picks up the mug and wipes the bottom before setting it back on the table. “Dare I ask of your own mother?”

The _I don’t know, dare you?_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he likes to think he’s not _completely_ hopeless, and so he shrugs. “I don’t really remember her.”

 

He only knows what she looked like, and only because of the portrait above the hearth. She had been beautiful, with copper curls and emerald eyes that he inherited from her, just like her smile.

He’d wonders if he looks anything like his father.

 

“I didn’t really know either of my parents,” he tells Eponine, because that is what people do in a conversation, isn’t it? They offer information relevant to the topic, even if it wasn’t actually in the question.

 

He doesn’t know if he expects sympathy or something else, but he prefers Eponine’s reaction to anything he could’ve thought of.

“You can have mine, if you want,” she suggests, grinning in a way that tells him he really _doesn’t_ want.

“I’ll pass,” he says obligingly.

  


And for a moment, as he’s laughing with her, his problems are on the back of his mind.

  


\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  


Not thinking about his problems, however, does not make them go away, and the evening finds him slowly and reluctantly making his way to the Grand Cathedral, the lure or relative comfort warring with pride in his head.

The priestesses will help him, he knows that, but he doesn’t want to be a charity case. He also doesn’t want to have to sleep under a bridge. Or go back home.

That leaves him with about... no options.

  


“Looking for a place to stay, little Pontmercy?”

  


The voice had come from behind him, so Marius turns around and then has to look down, because the man the voice belongs to is a dwarf. A beardless dwarf. With an unholy amount of hair on his chest and a wide grin on his face.

 

“How do you know my name?” Marius asks, because it’s a very reasonable question, given that, even though the dwarf seems vaguely familiar, he’s fairly certain they’ve never spoken.

The dwarf’s grin grows impossibly wider. “Because I know everything,” he says, and then he mock-gasps. “Oh, but where are my manners! The name’s Emile Courfeyrac, at your service.” He finishes with a dramatic curtsy that, by all accounts, should look ridiculous being done by a dwarf, yet somehow manages to be somewhat graceful, even.

 

_Courfeyrac_. He knows that name. He’s heard Grandfather curse that blighted son-of-a-dwarven-bitch Courfeyrac a thousand times already. According to him, Courfeyrac knows everything about everyone and blackmails good, respectable, high-standing men to help the scum of the streets.

 

“Listen,” the dwarf continues. “A little bird told me you’ve been kicked out - or you ran away, _whichever_ ,” he corrects himself when Marius opens his mouth to protest. “The point of the matter being that you need a place to stay. Right?”

 

Since both Grandfather and Courfeyrac himself already told him that Courfeyrac does indeed know everything, it seems a little useless to ask how he knows all this.

Unfortunately, Marius only realizes this after he’s already opened his mouth to ask that exact question and ends up looking a bit like a mildly retarded fish.

So he closes his mouth and just nods.

 

To Courfeyrac’s credit, he doesn’t make fun of him for being socially inept - he probably already knew that about him - but merely keeps talking. “Well, it just so happens I have too large a room at the Musain, a ridiculously comfortable sofa and a compulsive need to surround myself with pretty, intellectual people. So what do you say, Freckles?”

 

Truth be told, Marius has no idea what to say. He doesn’t know Courfeyrac, apart from that he’s apparently a big supporter of underdogs and that he knows everything about everyone including Marius himself, probably down to the colour of his underclothes. Even Marius doesn’t know the colour of his underclothes.

 

Would it be a bad idea to go with him? Probably.

Is Marius too polite - alright, awkward - to decline such a generous offer? Yes, definitely.

  
He does try, but his “I don’t want to be a bother” is shot down with “Don’t you listen? You’re practically doing me a favour”, even though Marius does hardly fall under the category of ‘pretty, intellectual people’, and so he lets Courfeyrac take him by the arm and lead him away from the Grand Cathedral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I'm not making Marius the total boob some fanfics make him out to be, I'm just trying to show that he thinks that of himself because of his grandfather. 
> 
> Also, Courfeyrac is a mix between Courfeyrac, Varric and Varys from A Song of Ice and Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Grantaire, Feuilly, Jehan, Cosette and Valjean are mages  
> Courfeyrac, Joly and Bossuet are dwarves, Azelma and Gavroche are half-dwarves  
> Jehan, Cosette, Feuilly, Thénardier and Musichetta are elves, Eponine is a half-elf  
> Azelma and Gavroche have a different father than Eponine


End file.
